THE LOTUS EATERS
by muffle-kun
Summary: What peaceful hours I once enjoy'd! How sweet their mem'ry still! But they have left an aching void The world can never fill
1. That Man of Different Faces: Small

**THE LOTUS-EATERS**

_What peaceful hours I once enjoy'd!  
How sweet their mem'ry still!  
But they have left an aching void  
The world can never fill_

-William Cowper, _Olney Hymns, "Walking with God"_

**THAT MAN OF DIFFERENT FACES**

**SMALL**

The light was blindingly bright.

After that came the darkness that could only exist in one's heart.

I opened my eyes and, somehow, the ground had managed

to rise noticeably close to my field of vision.

That, or I have impossibly shrunk.

Still unsure of what exactly had happened,

I dared look around.

And saw the impossible.

Everything else looked bigger.

And everyone had shrunk.

I looked down to my feet and refused to accept it.

I refused to accept that the annoying—no, _infuriating_—collection

of dust, pebbles, and minerals everyone calls the ground was

infuriatingly closer to my face.

I refused to accept it;

instead, I badly wanted to blast the whole chunk of rock into pieces.

With my gun in my hand, I know I could make it happen.

So I felt for the weapon under the cloak that

had materialized to drape around my shoulders.

Only…I felt one other thing wrong.

My hands felt weaker…smaller.

So I held my right hand up against the vast blue sky and stared.

The darkness started creeping in.

My right hand was small, just a tiny speck compared to everything.

And so was the rest of me.


	2. That Man of Different Faces: Paranoid

**THAT MAN OF DIFFERENT FACES**

**PARANOID**

In a blink of an eye, everything had changed.

If only I hadn't closed my eyes…

I didn't know how many days, weeks, or months have passed.

And I sure didn't give a damn.

I was too busy, always looking over my shoulders, expecting an enemy

to suddenly appear and lunge and try to kill me now that I was smaller…weaker…

that I momentarily forgot how to count.

How many days has it been since then?

Or was it months already?

These questions never really crossed my mind until I realized that,

even though I am one of the most powerful professional hitmen in the whole world,

while I'm wearing the face of a five-year old, nobody will try to kill me,

much less make me cry.

At that moment of realization, I could almost hear that woman's voice.

What had she said to me back then?

I couldn't remember.

And it might be best not to.

Life goes on.

But not for me.

I once had everything: fame, wealth, power; and in a blink of an eye, I lost it all—

probably not _everything_, but when you're stuck in a stupid body

of a stupid five-year old for a stupid God-knows-how-long,

you wouldn't help but feel so stupidly sorry for yourself.

So I grew mad.

Mad at the world for choosing me.

Mad at myself for accepting a decided fate that I only half-understood.

And suddenly, I wanted it all to change.

This might be my chance at a second life.

A chance to correct some mistakes, repent some sins, atone for more.

But I realized that I still want the fame, the wealth, the power, and that all I wanted to happen was for the bad memories to vanish.

I didn't even know how I had come to call those memories 'bad',

since I had always believed that every memory was supposed to be considered precious

and essential to the growth of one person,

but the more that I thought about it,

the more those memories seemed trash.

So I approached that doctor, that good friend of mine.

I told him I want parts of my memories erased, everything else retained

(lest I get into a battle and forget how to fight)

and asked if it was possible.

'Oh, it's possible all right,' he replied and added,

'…everything is…mostly the things you least expect to be'

and with a meaningful glance, gave me something.

It was a cup of liquid I did not yet know the name of.

I asked him what it is.

'I should be the one asking,' he said,

'…and I'm asking you, Are you sure you want to do this?'

The answer was already in my hands.

So I drank,

finished the whole cup in three long gulps my five-year old body could manage.

And paranoia settled in.

The world began spinning too fast for my taste,

everything swirled,

and for a moment I wanted to kill the bastard for poisoning me.

But when I saw his face, he wore a look of genuine fear and concern

and for the last time, I heard that woman's voice,

almost nagging.

"You worry too much, Mr. Paranoid Hitman."


	3. That Man of Different Faces: Cruel

**THAT MAN OF DIFFERENT FACES**

**CRUEL**

Do you commit a mortal sin by being cruel to others,

or is it more grave when you do it to yourself?

Just as I've thought.

That boy—no, I shall call him wimp—does not yet know the truth of this world.

He thinks that by playing it safe,

he would be able to live a peaceful, normal life.

I laugh every time I think about it.

Who on this earth leads a normal life?

So I push him.

I push him hard.

He always thinks I know everything that will happen,

and that I know what to do when it happens.

But the truth is…I don't.

I didn't know what happened to the others

or where they've gone to,

(I didn't really care much,

except that I want to see them when the time comes

to go back to our normal selves)

just as I don't know what to do once I've returned to normal.

Should I continue being a hitman?

Perhaps, after so long, I have tired of it.

But then again, that would be running away from the problem.

Which is exactly what that wimp is always doing

and what I hate the most.

I hate that wimp.

Because he reminds me of the escape I had so cowardly done.

So I tell myself—and I make sure I tell him too, in a scary way—that

he, that wimp who has so much potential to be both a nobody and a somebody,

should not make the same mistake as me.

He should be stronger.

He should not run away.

He should not forget.


End file.
